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Posts from November 2017

November 16, 2017

I know it’s just a vase a flowers, but what a difference it makes to the room. Flowers breath life and colour into a space –– and as we move into winter, I urge you all to buy them in abundance. I stuck little pink flowers in Acqua Panna bottles today, and my friend Jessica brought me an orchid, and my home instantly felt happier. Skip the gerbera daisies and tulips, and go for a single, full bodied hydrangea.

November 15, 2017

Is it too soon to fantasize about a feathery headpiece for summer? At a glance, this one from Gucci SS 18 looked like a fabulous retro swimming cap. And then I realized it was all feathers and mesh. It’s a lot to pull off, I know. But in the right mood, I think I could do it, without looking too much like Carmen Miranda meets Big Bird.

November 13, 2017

I learned to swim in Bermuda, and I learned to ride a bike there. Many of my best childhood memories take place on the island. Bold encounters with Coral Beach waves; dodging crabs on my way home from the beach; ice cream sandwiches and maraschino cherries for tea; chicken à la king at my grandparent’s table. To go back there is always a walk down memory lane. Last week, I walked along the road that ran alongside my grandparent’s old cottage, where I learned to ride my white two-wheeler, and where I walked home everyday salty and sandy from the beach. It felt longer than I remember. So much felt different, in fact. My grandparent’s salmon pink house appeared less sunny and polished, and there were no land crabs scuttling in and out of the grass. The tropical foliage was wildly overgrown, and a trampoline stood where banana trees used to grow. That’s the thing about going back to places idealized by childhood –– they never feel the same. Places change, as do we. But Bermuda will always be a place I hold dear. Its where I learned to swim, where I learned to ride a bike, and where I turned 40, with the tree frogs all singing a familiar tune.

November 11, 2017

Frette sheets, a fireplace and enough room to dance the tango –– yes, this is my kind of hotel room. Well, I’m assuming this is a hotel room. Where else do you see tea for two and fresh Delphiniums sitting at a writer’s desk? I’m guessing we’re in India, Jaipur maybe. If anyone finds out, let me know. I’ll buy us the airline tickets.

November 7, 2017

Take a look at José Antonio Roda‘s paper cutouts, all fashioned from a single sheet of paper. The Barcelona-based illustrator draws inspiration from Eduardo Arroyo, Fernand Leger, Saul Steinberg and Picasso, to name a few. He uses simple shapes and bold primary colours. I kind of love this French lady –– I may steal that eye for one of my plates.

November 5, 2017

I love this little house in Western Australia, it’s so full of colour and quirks. It’s owned by an artsy couple, Ian and Ros de Souza and is regularly open to the public for garden days and art walks. Most unusual, is their embrace of indoor/outdoor living –– the kitchen is virtually outside, and their shower is outside. Ros’ office is inside a reclaimed vintage train carriage, while Ian’s steel/glass studio is covered in paintings. Even the ceiling. The house is small, but that doesn’t stop them from squeezing 22 guests around one of Ian’s handmade tables on rails.

November 3, 2017

My introduction to fur came early in life, at about eight-years-old. My father used to take me with him to his fancy parties and I’d hide in the cloakroom fawning the furs all night. There were minks, sables and chinchillas, some jackets and gillets, others long to the ground. This was Gstaad in the 80s –– decadent, flashy, over-the-top. The chinchilla was the softest thing I’d ever felt. Then came the lessons from my grandmother. Yiayia loved fur coats and she had plenty of them. Hats and cuffs, too. When I was in my mid-20s, she sent me a mink in the mail. She’d picked it up at a consignment store at the plaza near her apartment in North Palm Beach. It was beautiful, but I was never sure how to wear it. I’m still not sure. The truth is, I haven’t loved fur since my cloakroom days. I don’t feel comfortable in it. Maybe if ever go to the ballet in St. Petersburg, I’ll bring out my mink. It even has my name stitched into the lining.